


To Sing to Shadows

by SupremeMasterOverlordKhurro



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Azriel - Freeform, But also some light, Cassian - Freeform, Collection of one shots, Court of Mist and Fury, Court of Silver Flames, Court of Thorns and Roses, Court of Wings and Ruin, Dark, Freye - Freeform, Gwen - Freeform, Happy Ending, Inner Circle - Freeform, Mating Bond, Rhysand - Freeform, Sarah J Maas, Shadow Bat, Some Romance, Some Whump, Suicidal Thoughts, Velaris, Violence, give the shadow boy a cookie, shadowsinger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29733144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupremeMasterOverlordKhurro/pseuds/SupremeMasterOverlordKhurro
Summary: “People often made the mistake of assuming Cassian was the wilder one; the one who couldn’t be tamed. But Cassian was all hot temper-  temper that could be used to forge and weld. There was an icy rage in Azriel I had never been able to thaw. In the centuries I’d known him, he’d said little about his life, those years in his father’s keep, locked in darkness. Perhaps the shadowsinger gift had come to him then, perhaps he’s taught himself the language of shadow and wind and stone. His half-brothers hadn’t forthcoming, either. I knew because I’d met them, asked them, and had shattered their legs when they’d spat on Azriel instead.”A series of one shots about the worlds greatest shadowsinger. Starting with a Drabble about his childhood.DARK THEMES PRESENT.
Kudos: 5





	To Sing to Shadows

_ People often made the mistake of assuming Cassian was the wilder one; the one who couldn’t be tamed. But Cassian was all hot temper- temper that could be used to forge and weld. There was an icy rage in Azriel I had never been able to thaw. In the centuries I’d known him, he’d said little about his life, those years in his father’s keep, locked in darkness. Perhaps the shadowsinger gift had come to him then, perhaps he’s taught himself the language of shadow and wind and stone. His half-brothers hadn’t forthcoming, either. I knew because I’d met them, asked them, and had shattered their legs when they’d spat on Azriel instead.  _

  
  


When Azriel was born, his father had locked him and his mother in a room about the size of the average bathroom. There was a tiny window that let it just a touch of light at sunset and some towels for his mother to lay on, but that was all. He gave them just enough food to survive, but never personally delivered. One of the kitchen workers would bring it up, and when she had the chance, she would sneak up some extra. Azriels mother was allowed to take him out once a day for an hour, wash him once a week, and was given some fabric to make him some clothes. Their hour a day out of the cell was whenever the lord of the household felt like giving it to her, and never at the same time twice. 

As soon as Azriel was a year old, able to walk and feed himself, his mother was pulled away and put back to work. And Azriels cell got smaller. He could feed himself, but wasn’t coordinated enough to figure out how to dress 

himself just yet. Especially with wings in the way. He could walk, but not very far. Poor nutrition and lack of room to exercise took a toll on him, especially as young as he was. 

As he got older, his cell got smaller. He lost the tiny window entirely by the time he was 4. His father bound his wings, tying them tightly. His father would let him “see” his mother, but not always interact. It was “weakness” to want his mom, was what he was told. But who cared if he was weak if they were locking him away anyway? 

For years it continued. They would rebind his wings every few months as he grew, though his growth was stunted. He was kept in the dark so long that any light hurt his eyes. The lack of space to move around often meant he would have to sit in his own filth until he would be let out. He tried to time it, so he would eat and drink only an hour or so before being let out, but it rarely worked out that way. When he was 8, he got sick. Too weak to make the treck out of the dungeons and to the outside, he laid in his vomit and filth until one of the guards, claiming to be too disgusted by the smell, dragged him outside to wash. The sunlight had nearly blinded Azriel and he had shied away from it, but the women had come out and washed him, after tying a cloth around his eyes to ease that pain for a little. 

Somehow, he recovered. It was later that same year that his half brothers came down to his cell, grinning and carrying a bucket and a torch. Azriel had been sleeping, hadn’t even noticed them coming down until the door to his cell opened. The clicking of the door made him jerk awake but the glow from the flame blinded him. They held him down and poured hot oil on his hands. He screamed, tried to get away, but his brothers were too much stronger, healthier. They laughed and held the torch to his hands, and no matter how hard Azriel struggled, they held him there and continued to laugh until the gaurds came running down the stairs. His brothers were dragged away and the guards worked on putting out the fire. He never found out how they did it, because he passed out before they finished.

His hands had been blistered and raw, and wrapped tightly by the time he woke up. He stayed curled up under the threadbare blanket he had, and refused to leave the darkness of his cell for days. The constant burning of his hands, of his bound wings, his eyes whenever he saw light was unbearable. Infection set in on his hands, leaving him feverish. That’s when he first began to hear the shadows talk. When they first began to hum and sing to him, strange songs in strange languages. They floated around him, curled around his wings and wounded hands gently. 

At some point, the gaurds came in and dragged him up the stairs to the family healer. He fought weakly against them, but it was hopeless. He begged the healer to let him die. What was the point of living if he was stuck in that tiny cell with no light? She ignored him, and put a salve on his hands, fresh bandages, and gave him a tea that put him to sleep. She kept him in that sleep until the infection passed. She had noticed the shadows that curled over his wings and clung to him, noticed them seeming to watch her carefully as if they were protecting him. As if he was not just some regular bastard born to a lord. But she didn’t report it. 

Azriel had choice but to learn how to use his hands again once they brought him back to his cell after the infection was gone. The shadows kept him company now though, whispering to him of the goings on of the estate. They told him what food they were bringing to him that day, either scraps from the family meal or food that had begun to spoil. They told him when the gaurds were coming to take him out, or when his brothers were coming down. 

Somehow, his father found out about them. He knew about the shadows and Azriel was summoned up to his office one evening. He would be going to Windhaven to train, his father said. He would either come back a warrior or be killed. His wings were unbound and he was given clothes instead of rags, but still brought down to his cell that night. Two days later, his father took him to Windhaven. 

Azriel didn’t know how to fly. He had never learned, and there had not been any time to learn, so his father had to carry him in. His father dropped him over the camp, high enough that if Azriel did not open his wings he would splatter on the ground and likely die. His wings barked in pain as they were forced open and he hit the ground hard, but nothing broke. 

The camp was intimidating. Shadowsinger he may be, but he was smaller than the others, scrawny and underfed, and his wings nearly useless and still raw from the ropes that had bound them. The other males in the camp fed off his weakness like a bunch of leaches. A female took him in, the High Lord’s mate. She claimed she was friends with Azriel’s mother, but he wasn’t sure he believed her. What kind of a friend would let someone rot?

There were two other boys who lived in the house too. Rhysand and Cassian. One the heir of the Night Court and the other a bastard, and both of them bullies and cruel. Those first few weeks were horrible. Azriel couldn’t keep up with the others. He was knocked the ground more than he cared to count, covered in bruises and scrapes, fractures and sprains. But he kept getting up, kept going to the training ring, kept fighting back. The shadows helped. They warned him when someone was coming, so he could find a way to escape if he didn’t think he could fight them. They helped him hide, the shadows wrapping him in darkness against the trees. His eyes got more used to the light, but the shadows still helped block some of it out on the really bright days. The first day it snowed, the light was so blinding that he had let the shadows guide him to a cave where he could hide in the darkness for the day. He got whipped for it later, and didn’t try it again. 

At some point, the tables turned a bit. Rhysand and Cassian became allies with Azriel, helping him train and get stronger. Their alliance slowly became more, until they were friends, and then brothers. They didn’t question his aversion to small enclosed spaces, or why he had to keep the window open at all times regardless of the weather. They just accepted it. And pretty soon, the 3 became inseparable and more powerful than any other Illyrians. 

Somehow, after all the darkness, he had found a light. 


End file.
